


A Soldier's Christmas

by aurora_ff



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Eve, Comics/Movie Crossover, F/M, Flashbacks to the 1930's and 1940's, Manhattan, New York City, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Rockefeller Plaza, Romanogers Challenge, figure skating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 10:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1895715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurora_ff/pseuds/aurora_ff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The Avengers Tower in New York City is complete, just in time for the holidays.  After a fruitless search for Bucky Barnes, Steve and Sam return to the States. Tony Stark arranges a Christmas Eve gift exchange for the Avengers.  With her present, Natasha inspires Steve to find another meaning to this wintery season.</i><br/>.<br/>Teen rating for use of alcohol. Otherwise, General audiences.<br/>.<br/>Prompt notes:<br/>This work is in response to xoxomyseriesxoxo's <a href="http://xoxomyseriesxoxo.tumblr.com/post/90371943121/finally-guys-today-begins-the-romanogers">Romanagers Challenge, Week 1</a> on the theme of "Christmas celebration at work."</p><hr/>
            </blockquote>





	A Soldier's Christmas

Steve hadn’t intended to return to the States for Christmas this year. Sam and he weren’t any closer to finding Bucky, or what was left of him, in the tatters of the Winter Soldier. What they _had_ found was a number of HYDRA agents also taking an interest in recovering the Asset; Steve and Sam deposited them into the hands of the shadowy Nick Fury, which was satisfying in its own way, he figured.

It was six weeks until Christmas. In Egypt, while enjoying coffees on a veranda in Cairo, Sam declared a need for a break from the Chase. “It’s for morale, you know? You remember that Bing Crosby song? 'I’ll Be Home For Christmas?' Right? Well, don’t you want to be home at this time of year? I know I do! I’ve got nieces and nephews to spoil!”

Steve suddenly felt his utter defenselessness in being reminded of _That Song._

Crosby’s hit came out the very year he and Sergeant James Barnes and the rest of the Howling Commandos started their missions against the Red Skull's HYDRA bases. Bucky delicately carried that original 78 Decca single in his belongings like it was china. In November and December of '44, he turned that tune out in every back-country, European village that sheltered their team. To that song, again and again, Steve’s best friend danced slowly with any interested woman -- young or old, pretty or plain, tall or short, skilled or not -- like she was the only woman in the world.

  
I'll be home for Christmas  
You can plan on me  
Please have snow  
And mistletoe  
And presents on the tree  


Sometimes, if Buck caught Steve looking on from the bar or his seat at a nearby table, he’d give his pal a playful-but-knowing wink as he lead his partner with his smooth grace. Bucky knew that Steve was fixing on Peggy Carter and Peggy Carter only.

  
Christmas Eve will find me  
Where the love-light gleams  
I'll be home for Christmas  
If only in my dreams

 

The memories skipped _ad infinium_ , just like the needle at the end of that record. 

“Well, Mr. Thousand-Mile-Stare?” Sam goaded. “How ‘bout it?”

“Okay,” Steve acquiesced. “Let’s go back. If I can crash on your couch or something?”

“If you want, brother. Yeah. But Pepper just texted that Tony has something to unveil in New York, just in time for the holidays. He’d like you to be there. Along with, and I quote, ‘All the other widows and orphans.’” Sam lifted his eyebrows. “‘Widows’, you know?”

“Yeah, Sam,” Steve acknowledged. “I get it.”

"Look," his friend said over the last dregs of his cup. "I don't mean to pry, but are you two ever going to get serious?"

Steve smiled sadly for a moment, looking down at his fingertip that played against the curve of his demitasse. "It would never work. Trust me. But let's go back anyway." 

* * *

On the S.H.I.E.L.D. helicarrier a few years ago, Steve had once offhandedly referred to Stark Tower as a big, ugly building. The refurbished Avengers Tower was still big, and still a building, only this time Steve was uncertain whether he could call it ugly or something else, because after the lighting ceremony that night on the 22nd, it glittered and sparkled with millions of shifting white motes of light over its surface. He was certain whatever technology projected the star-field was just one more of Stark’s inventions, and a cake-walk of engineering at that, but it made a dazzling mini-universe in the New York City sky-scape.

Later that night, Tony and Pepper hosted a select after-party in the penthouse of a nearby Madison Avenue building for his friends to admire the Tower after the whole thing was lit up. Rogers had resurrected his favorite suit from storage for the occasion, a dark-blue pinstripe. 

Sam elected to stay in D.C. rather than join them. “Go be with your buddies, Cap! You’ve probably missed them more than you think.” Before Steve left, Sam had given him a pair of star-shaped cufflinks at a Christmas present. Steve gave a return gift of a field guide to the birds of North America, which had Sam in stitches for a good two minutes.

As he walked through the small crowd, Steve recognized all the faces he missed and then some.

Maria Hill was on her cell, calm and collected as usual, probably dealing with some international security crisis. She nodded to Steve and gave him a wink as if to indicate whatever emergency call she was dealing with was a piece-of-cake.

Bruce, never really comfortable with parties but attempting the effort, made some sort of small chat with Colonel Rhodes.

Thor was admiring the Tower with Jane at his side, likely discussing the quantum-mechanics of how the Asgardians’ method of travel to Earth was restored with the harnessing of the Tesseract's powers.

When Steve's eyes rested on Natasha in a glacial-blue party dress, her fiery hair styled and studded with small, sparkling crystal beads, he felt his legs want to freeze in place. 

Natasha was engaged in easy and close conversation with Clint, as he expected. There was a phrase, _thick as thieves._ The archer-assassin muttered something in her ear and cocked his eyebrow at her. She just shook her head slowly.

When she went back to scanning the room, her gaze locked on Steve. A warmth touched her lips as she smiled at him.

Steve swallowed. Yes. It was Natasha he missed the most. He was about to approach her when Tony clapped his hands, drawing the attention of the few dozen folks in the well-appointed room.

“Hey, everyone!” Stark began. “Now that the band’s back together, I have a few things I want to say.” He paused, taking a drink of whatever liquor was in his glass. “First of all, Merry Channa-kwan-stice-mas! Did I miss something?! Oh, yeah. Channa-kwan-stice-festiv-mas! There we go!”

The penthouse filled with laughter, and Thor boomed, goodheartedly. “You forgot Yule, my friend!”

“You’re right!” Tony returned. “I’ll have JARVIS _log_ that for later.”

Steve groaned along with the entire room.

“Now, for the Avengers staying at the Tower till New Year's, Santa Stark has a special challenge for you: a gift exchange on Christmas Eve. However...and here is the kicker!...your gifts to each other must be crafted, made, or a personal act of generosity. No plunking down your no-limit StarkCard at Tiffany's, gentleman.” He quipped at Natasha: “Sorry, Moulin Rouge! Can’t have a repeat of last year!” Tony then concluded, “You will all have to get creative, and you have about forty-eight hours only. Chop-chop!”

At least creativity was something Steve never lacked.

He finally approached Natasha and offered out his arms, trying not to let his smile go over-the-top. She slid into his embrace as if she belonged, and Steve felt his heart hitch as held her for a long moment. Clint was watching on from halfway across the room with a neutral gaze.

“I didn’t know when you would be back, Steve,” Natasha said after he released her. What emotion came through her voice he could not read. “Still no luck with finding Barnes?”

Steve held his disappointment in check. “He’s a ghost, like you said.”

Something drifted over Natasha’s features that seemed just a bit lonesome. “A ghost of the Past. A ghost of the Present. But maybe, if you can just figure out how, he won’t be the one of your Future.”

* * *

When the time came for the actual Avengers' Christmas Eve gift-giving, they gathered around Stark’s modernistic fireplace. Soon there was a significant debate of how it should be done.

Tony was of the opinion that all the gifts should be distributed; then, in one mad frenzy, everyone should open everything of theirs at once.

Bruce quietly offered, like he was calculating a formula: “Well, if you want to maximize the personal bonding experience of each exchange…” Tony glared at him, and he immediately shut up.

Natasha just sat with her knees tucked to her chest, holding a bundle of envelopes, looking a bit brooding. Steve remembered, she never _had_ a Christmas growing up in the Russian orphanage, and he wanted nothing more to than cheer her with a rain of silly little presents like earmuffs and holiday-themed socks and kazoos; all the things she never got as a kid.

Steve’s own depression-era holidays were never extravagant, but Bucky always made sure there was _something_ of a get-together, some sort of gifts that only close friends would think to give. He did this even after the tuberculosis took Steve's mother. Being together at the holidays; it’s just what loved ones did with each other.

Clint seemed indifferent, resting his weight on the very back corner of a curved couch; Hawkeye looked out the expansive windows of the tower to the city beyond, his collection of baseball sized boxes to hand out resting on the cushions below him. 

“Here's the call,” Steve spoke up, using his Captain’s voice. “Thor’s off with Jane, but he left us a barrel of something on the bar and a letter. We'll look at that first. Nat, why don’t you read it for us?” 

“Alright,” she said, and uncoiled herself to find the scroll Thor had left with the cask. She cracked the waxen seal, then cleared her throat. “ _Greetings upon this Yuletide, my Earthly Fighting Friends! I regret that I could not be with you in your Celebrations of your star’s renewed journey within your realm’s firmament. The flowers of Vanaheim are now blooming with such splendor, and I have promised to take my Lady Jane to witness what mere words cannot describe. I have left you all a cask of Asgardian mead to imbibe in my absence._ ” With those words, Tony was already pulling out the designer mugs from the bar. Natasha continued. “ _I ask my friends to raise a toast for Peace in all the Realms on this day and all the days ahead. Be forewarned, my companions, the drink is pleasant upon the tongue but can quickly overwhelm those unused to its character. Until we meet again in Midgard, my fondest salutations. Thor Odinson._ ” 

Natasha set the scroll next to the cask. “Well, that was nice,” she said, the barest of smiles floating on her lips. 

Steve watched as Stark tapped experimentally on the cask once before finding the knob that would release the mead in a steady stream into a drinking vessel. Tony was not stingy, and he co-opted Natasha to pass the filled mugs from the bar to Clint, Bruce, and Steve. 

Steve could not help but to sniff at the concoction. It smelled of nectar and cinnamon and spices he could not name. In smelled warm, a balm against the chill of a winter’s wind. Bruce was also doing the same thing, but seemed to treat it a bit more empirically, swirling it as if it was wine, dipping a finger in and letting it drop back into the cup, figuring its viscosity. 

Tony and Natasha rejoined the circle and they all stood, mugs in hand. 

Feeling a pang of reminiscence for his old brothers-in-arms, Steve raised his drink. “To Peace in all the Realms!” he called, and the others replied, clinking their mugs together. “To Peace!” 

Steve decided to take a good few gulps of the mead before the gift-giving proceeded. Liquor never affected him anyway; it was a by-product of Erskine’s serum. Still, the drink went down smooth and left a pleasant tingling in his stomach. 

He eased himself back down to the couch, realizing that everyone was looking to the Captain for a cue. He reached down for his own gifts, wrapped in newspaper. “How about some musical chairs? Natasha and Clint can be the first floaters, and that way they’ll end up with each other's gifts last.” That sounded tactically sound, but he realized his was rusty making the calls for more than just he and Sam. 

Tony shrugged and threw himself into a chair, taking his mug with him. He fished for a few nano-gifts out of his cargo pant’s pocket. “Who wants to sit on Santa’s lap first?” His dark eyes landed on Natasha. “How about you, little girl? Have you been good this year?” 

Steve thought about calling foul on Stark, but he remembered that the Black Widow could take care of herself. 

“I ‘jacked your sleigh an hour ago, and it’s now in the hands of Loki. How’s _that_ for good?!” Natasha riffed, which made Stark guffaw, Clint wince a little but still grin, and Steve just lift his mug in salute. Bruce silently laughed with his arms wrapped around himself. 

Because Clint perched himself again beside Bruce, Steve found himself alone for now in the exchange. He swallowed his drink again; it tasted even better on the second helping. He caught that Clint had given Dr. Banner a hand-carved mobius band out of what looked like cherry wood, polished and oiled. 

Natasha most pointedly didn’t sit on Tony’s lap as she offered him an envelope, setting it carefully down on a side-table next to Stark's chair. Tony took another drink before he swiped it up, opening and reading. He commented with a bit of amusement, “Well, that sounds like fun! Can Pepper come too?” 

Steve blinked, his eyes unfocusing for a moment. He let the conversation simply wash over him. The next thing he knew, Natasha was seated beside him. “Hey, Cap,” she greeted. “Merry Christmas.” 

“Merry Christmas,” he returned, finding his tongue a little more thick in his mouth. “Though you know it’s the twenty-first century and all. You know you can always..." his mind wandered slightly, following an impulse before he reined it. "...always call me Steve.” Her hair seemed to be glowing with the reflection of the light in the fireplace. He barely kept himself from lifting up a hand to see what it felt like to weave his fingers through her flames. 

She still held her mug. “Then cheers!” she exclaimed. Somehow his mug was back in his hand and more of the elixir found its way down his throat. 

The world was becoming a bit more liquid and a bit more bright. He wanted to draw it all. 

“Natasha,” he whispered, restraining himself from getting closer to her ear. “I think I’m getting tipsy.” 

She bit her lip and then started easing the vessel out of his hand. “Then stop, Steve. Okay?” 

“Sure.” His fingers, tingling, let his drink go. His eyes tracked her, mostly, as she set aside both her mug and his on the bar. She sat next to him again. 

“You don’t seem that...affected,” Steve observed. 

She just shrugged. “I’m Russian. My liver was pickled by the time I was sixteen.” 

Steve flipped through his flatly-shaped presents and found the one wrapped in the Sunday’s comics. He offered it to her. “And before you say anything about the wrapping…” 

“Habit?” she inquired, taking up his gift. “Well, now-a-days you can call it recycling. It’s pretty crisp.” 

She re-arranged her envelopes, locating the one marked for Steve. He took it, and then let it rest unopened between his fingers that he rested on his knee. 

“You first,” he said. “It’s gentlemanly.” Steve then took in a long breath, hoping...well, hoping a lot of things. 

Steve briefly scanned the room out of habit and found that the mead had made the others a bit more talkative with one another, such as they clustered in their own conversation and left he and Natasha in their own little booze-infused world. Even Clint seemed to have abandoned his vigil of her. 

Natasha peeled back the paper and studied the twelve-by-twelve pencil sketch that Steve had drawn for her. It was of a pack of wolves running through an impressionistic high-mountain forest. Not the stereotypical thing of stand-still, glamorously posed wolves howling at the moon; they were coursing, hunting beasts of strength and grace and cunning set upon an unknown kill. She almost seemed enraptured as the back of her fingers brushed the edge of the temporary mounting he used to gift the work. 

“Why seven?” she breathed so softly, Steve almost didn’t hear. 

The mead was singing in his blood, and he tossed his head back against the back of the couch, looking at the ceiling. “I don’t know, Nat. It felt right, for the composition.” He then recalled, “Clint said that you liked wolves.” 

“Yeah. I do. It’s...um...beautiful. What other things is he colluding with you about?” she questioned. 

Steve prayed that she wasn’t actually as sober as she let on. “I just wanted to give you something special. That’s all.” A good lie was a half-truth, Barton had taught him. And it was a white lie, he told himself, just like the driven snows. 

He gave a sigh of relief when Natasha goaded, “Okay. Now yours.” 

Steve leveraged himself to the edge of the couch and concentrated on tearing her envelope. In the folds was a single, black-papered, four-by-six card. She used a thin, silver-inked marker to write: “ _Special Christmas Op requiring Steven Grant Rogers. Report at 0100, Christmas Day at the private Tower entrance. Dress for plain-clothes activities and in layers. (And if -anyone- asks, say that this was an offer to model for you.) ~N_ ” 

He let his mind soak up the details again, and then for some reason he was prompted to vault himself from the couch and throw the card in the fireplace, letting it turn to ash. 

_That_ got the trios’ attention. “Too racy for your neighborhood, Mr. Rogers?” was the first thing out of Tony’s mouth, now clearly in his cups. 

“JARVIS,” Steve called to the room. “What is the local time, military?” 

The AI reported, “The time is 2323.” 

Steve explained. “The mead got to my head, and I’m, like...nearly a hundred years old. If you don’t mind?” 

He passed out the rest of his gifts, and then remembered vaguely that Tony didn’t like to be handed things. The billionaire-philanthropist snatched it from his hand anyway with a bit of disdain. 

Steve made an about-face to the exit, but let his eyes briefly fall on Natasha to give her a clandestine wink. He thought he saw her containing a grin as he did so. 

“Merry Christmas, Cap,” Bruce offered in a mellow farewell. 

He paused briefly at the doorway, and in the most strange of prompted ironies, he offered: “God bless us, everyone.” 

* * *

Steve’s head was mostly cleared of the Asgardian mead by the time he snuck down to the basement floor. 

Natasha was in dark civilian clothes when Steve met her at the discreet back door of the Avenger’s Tower; there was a tunnel reserved for making quiet and unnoticed entrances and departures from the premises. She had a backpack stuffed with a number of things that were unidentifiable for now. Because she had invited Steve, not particularly _Captain America_ , he left his very-identifiable shield back up in his assigned rooms. 

“Nat, what are we doing?” he asked softly. “Do you actually mean to...um…’borrow’ a sled somewhere?” 

She chuckled, shaking her head. Her eyes met his in such a way that Steve wished he wasn’t compelled to take the high-road with her. Again and again. 

“No,” she admitted, mischief in her tone. “Although I’m wondering if you still believe in St. Nicholas coming down the chimney?” 

Steve decided to play it cool. “Not really. At least, not until I spot the prep-and-landing crew of elves giving him a little help.” 

She laughed in surprise. “Let me guess. _’Get in. Get out. Never be noticed?_ ’” 

He shrugged, but a boyish smile spread across his lips. He missed her laugh more than he realized. 

“Well,” she continued. “This mission’s location is only about six blocks away. You ready for deployment, soldier?” 

“Yes, Ma’am.” 

* * *

In the stillness of a cloudy and mild Christmas Eve, they made their way a little west and much more north through the vaulting skyscrapers of Midtown Manhattan. 

Steve grew up in Brooklyn, a subway-ride away from this island that was also a part of New York City. He knew the street grid, if not the changing presence of its buildings, pretty well. They did not so much walk as hustle; a behavior, that if it was a _real_ mission, she would never have risked. 

“What are you up to, Natasha?” he breathed in the cold air, keeping in time with her feet. “Did Stark or Barton put you up to something?” 

“You think I’m going to steal the star off of the Rockefeller holiday tree, just so Stark’s building shines brighter?” she accused. 

“That’s one scenario,” Steve offered. 

“Damn, Cap,” she huffed as her feet beat a steady rhythm on the empty, Midtown sidewalks. “You’ve become almost as paranoid as me and Clint.” Her pace slowed slightly. “I’m...Well...I’m sorry for that.” 

“I don’t think you can walk in the footsteps of an assassin and not learn the moves,” Steve said, realizing a moment too late how worldly he sounded. 

He thought she flicked him a gaze, but then she just buried her hands in her pockets and marched on another block or so, until the holiday lights of the Center warmed the dirty cement and hard corners of the Manhattan high-rises. 

Steve dragged his feet more and more. He finally clutched at her elbow. “Natasha, that place is littered with cameras.” 

She paused and turned towards him. 

“Yes,” she confirmed, her voice husky. “I know that. But a flesh-and-blood person runs those cameras, at least for now.” She sighed. “And those persons can be bought off. But just sometimes...people will do things just out of the kindness of their hearts. Because, well, it’s _Christmas_.” 

He should have kissed her at that moment. He wanted to kiss her and convince her to go back to the Tower, using the last of his willpower to then virtuously tuck her in. Instead, Steve just said, “It’s your op and your call.” 

“Then let’s continue.” She looped her arm into his like they were two sweethearts on a late-night city walk. 

A few people loitered in the brightly lit square, and there was a number of patrolling security guards they passed, to which Natasha offered them each, “A very joyous Eve to you,” and they each responded with “It’s good to have the stars out tonight.” 

It dawned on him in the first exchange that the Center’s security was in on what she was doing. 

Steve had visited the Rockefeller holiday display several times before the War. It had only gotten more elaborate after his return from his cryostasis, more brilliantly lit. 

Natasha guided him to the double set of stairs that lead down into the lower plaza. At this time of year, it also hosted the ice rink, just below the decorated eighty-foot Norway spruce and an iconic golden statue. Her intention was becoming clearer and clearer to him. 

The rink had been closed for hours, but it was still lit, quiet and empty. Only the gilded sculpture of Prometheus, carrying his stolen fire to gift to humanity, would bear witness to them below. 

From somewhere deep in memory came Bucky’s chiding voice. _“C’mon, pal. Live a little! You might actually get good at it.”_ Eighteen-year-old Steve had bruises for weeks and nursed a sprained wrist for longer. And tonight, eighty-some years later, he got a pit in his stomach again. 

Natasha shimmied out of her backpack and unzipped it. 

Steve protested feebly, just like he did then. “Nat, I’m not really good at this. I’ll embarrass you.” 

She pressed a pair of black ice-skates into his chest and took out her own. “Who’s around to see, Steve?” 

He swallowed and shook his head. “I don’t do this.” It wasn’t so much being awkward as it was the sheet of _ice_ , cold and white, that he would have to give himself over to. Again. 

With one gloved hand, she framed his jaw with her thumb and index finger. “I say you do.” She then sighed forlornly, sat down on the steps, and unzipped her boots so she could begin lacing herself into her own skates. The steel blades reflected the lights from the Center like two flashing knives. “I went to all this _trouble..._ ” 

Steve scoffed. Natasha knew him well, and she saved the guilt-card for last. 

“Alright,” he acquiesced, taking a seat himself to strap on the equipment, preparing for the unpleasantness. 

When she stepped onto the rink ahead of him, it was obvious that she was well-acquainted with skating, gliding effortlessly. 

Steve clasped his hands to the plexiglass gate, and taking a deep shuddering breath, he launched himself upon upon the ice. 

He didn’t fall as he scrambled his way to Natasha, which he counted as a victory. She cut towards him and then stopped in a small skid of frost. She wasn’t quite showing off, not quite. 

“Here,” she offered out her hands. “Let's do a forward skating stroke first. Look at me; don't look at your feet.” 

His hands clasps her wrists. She was a much better teacher than Buck had been, in his cock-sure youth. 

She showed him a couple of other things, most importantly how to stop. He hadn’t fallen once. Sometimes, especially when visiting places he had been to before the serum and Howard Stark's vita-rays, Steve forgot that his body had all the balance and strength of a professional athlete and better. He let it sink in that even here, in Rockefeller Center, he was no longer so uncoordinated and fragile as he had been in 1936. 

“I think I got it,” Steve finally confirmed. 

Natasha smiled in a way that brightened her face. The Christmas lights hung like a chandelier in her eyes, and he forgot to breathe for a moment. 

“You should spread your wings,” he toned. “Have some fun without holding the hand of a nonagenarian.” 

“Steve,” she chided, as if telling him that he was being unduly cruel to himself. 

“Show off to me, Sparks.” The nickname came unbidden, and he almost regretted it. The only thing he could do was recover as smoothly as possible. “But just one thing…” 

Steve slid Natasha into his arms. She seemed quickly transfixed, her gaze on his face set in lines of invitation and longing. Rather than fall to one desire, he indulged in another. Carefully, he pulled off her knitted hat, revealing her flame-red hair. His fingers also worked at the ponytail at the nape of her neck, sliding the band off. His gloved fingers raked through her tresses, loosening them, setting them free. 

He dug in with his blades and gently pushed her away. “I want to see your moves,” he declared. “I know you have them.” 

The phantom of disappointment faded from Natasha as she shrugged, then began skating backwards, picking up a little speed. “Okay. Because it’s Christmas.” 

Steve nodded. “Because it’s Christmas,” he affirmed. 

Natasha would never compete professionally in the rink. But then again, she had devoted her life to a much more dangerous effort than marks on a six-point scale. Her hair waved like a proud red flag as she jumped and spun and stretched out her willowy limbs. She spiraled around and around him, like he was the sun and she was caught in his orbit. He listened to the sound of her laughter at her own antics, and he reveled privately in his own joy. 

It was Steve's guilty pleasure to indulge his heart in her this way, the only way he could: from afar. He knew the impossibility of having anything more with Natasha. She and he shared one too many ghosts of winters' past. Certainly she would never want to be in the same room as the man that had wounded her in so many ways. But to dwell on that _now_ , in the first few hours of this magical night, was antithetical to the warmth and mystery she offered.

  
Christmas Eve will find me  
Where the love-light gleams  
I'll be home for Christmas  
If only in my dreams

Steve sighed in his reverie. In this moment, Natasha was the only woman in the world. So _that_ had been Bucky’s secret, Steve recognized with piercing clarity seventy-years too late. In this moment, for this soldier, Natasha _is_ his home.

**Author's Note:**

> 1000 hits on Christmas Eve. Thank you, fans!


End file.
